Underground

 By Steven Wade Veatch

Thunderstorms batter the sky.
The porch shakes while lightning wages war.
Black and purple mix like a bruise.
Wind whirls through the aspens.
Icy rain soaks the ground—
wet soil and decaying leaves
smell like an underground mine.
Dank scents bring memories
with annotations. My thoughts spin
then strike the borderland of my memories,
breaking through to a place
of shafts, dimly lit voids, and ore carts.
 
My great grandfather trudges
through confining spaces, groaning timbers,
dripping water, and rusting rails.
Muddy places smear his clothes with grime.
His pick bounces off rocks again and again.
Booming blasts fill the drifts with acrid
smells. A taste of sulfur lingers.
 
I see him reach down and scoop
up a handful of gold ore,
he lets it fall through his fingers,
and tells me how to live.
So much to remember.
I should have listened more,
but I am far away.
 
The blackness swallows
the flickering light of his candle
and his face recedes from view.
His words flood my mind—
a generational reckoning—
part of my ritual of becoming.
I carry some stories, like blaring bells,
others I have lost.
 
In me, these inheritances manifest:
a lifelong journey toward a glittering
horizon, but I never get there.
I should have listened more,
and now my time is gone.

Elkton mine, Cripple Creek Mining District. The author’s great grandfather worked in this mine for over two decades. Photo date 1894, courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum.